


Hounds of Love

by aactionjohnny



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Wartime, Yearning, kind of?, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26585974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: It is a love story fit to be sung by a bard.An altered telling of the romance between Lady Trevelyan and Cullen. Follows canon events of DA: I with some changes/additions.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. I don’t know what’s good for me

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a Kate Bush song because she’s the only good thing left in the world sometimes
> 
> Recently finished playing this game again and got all heart eyes motherfucker over Them

People would ask, years later, if he knew from the first moment. If he saw her, all glowing and blushing in the cold of the snow, and loved her instantly. He would never know what to tell them. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, he felt something grab hold of his hardened heart and push it agonizingly up into his throat. But how does one experience love at first sight with a sword in their hand, with the corpses of demons laying at their feet. The air was too full of fear for him to be warmed by her. 

He told people, to make it easier, that yes, it was love at first sight. It was simpler than “Maker, this woman is stunning and I feel a little sick from it, like she could change my life for better or worse” at first sight. People did not expect too much of an explanation from him, anyway. He had always been looked at as cold, perhaps too stern. Some people wondered if he even had the  _ capacity _ for love.

Della solved the mystery. Della, at first a nervous prisoner dragged into the valley by Cassandra. Then, a perfect silhouette holding one dainty hand to the sky to stop its bleeding. Then, the Herald, emerging from sleep and walking through the adoring crowd toward the chantry. Toward him. She was inevitable, like the will of the Maker. There would be no escaping her, though he tried so hard at first. He tried not to look at the furrow of her smooth brow as she studied the massive map on the war table. Tried not to admire her perfect form as she stretched a bow back across her chest, flinging the sharpest of arrows into the center of a target. Tried not to hear her laugh. Tried not to watch. Tried not to dream. She made it impossible.

-

She, too, was doomed from the very beginning. For her, all young and lonesome and scared, to see this sturdy mountain of a man was like deliverance from her ordeal. The sky bled and screamed, but his voice was soft, too soft for someone gripping hard onto a sword and carrying the heaviest of shields. For her, maybe made simple by never having been properly in love, it  _ was _ love at first sight. She just didn’t know what to call it, then. 

She knew, though, that if she did not ever see him again her youthful heart would break into a thousand pathetic little pieces, and perhaps no man could ever put it back together. That was how  _ men _ were supposed to fall in love, she’d learned. Achingly, stupidly.  _ They _ were supposed to look at someone and feel their ears turn hot and their toes curl in their boots and the whole world turn sideways.  _ They _ were the hungry ones. The pit in her stomach that she felt in his presence was hollow like the Breach. It could swallow her, if she let it.

After a few days of uncomfortable lust, fumbling through her newfound respect and responsibility, she found it a little easier to be near him. Easier to let herself talk without worrying that all she could produce were needy sighs and girlish giggles. 

She greeted him with a calm smile, walking with her fingers laced behind her back to keep them from fidgeting. It was foolish, to be nervous. She had spent her whole life talking to people, keeping her posture straight and her voice serene, lest she embarrass her parents and therefore her entire family, from the Marches to the ends of the world. Josephine had told her that these experiences would make her an expert player of the game. Della tried to be proud of that possibility.

Cullen, she learned, hated the game. He hated the artifice, and she worried that she did not know herself well enough to be real. She tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear. The rest of it was trying desperately to remain neat despite the wind, tied back with two braids around her crown, all gathered in a knot.

When she greeted him he turned, stern brow fixed ever-suspiciously, as if not one thing in the world could be trusted without thorough vetting. But he softened at the sight of her, and she tried to smile sweetly. He had a nervous laugh, she learned. He was so very, very nervous behind his stony outside. He was soft inside, like his voice was. He missed his home. He had principles. She had a fluttering in her chest that she could not will away.

“It’s all so overwhelming,” she said, quiet and unprompted.

“What is? Oh, all this?” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings. “I’m...sure it’s a lot for you to take in. All of a sudden you’re a savior.”

“It’s an awful lot of pressure for one person,” she admitted. She searched his eyes for sympathy. “If Andraste wanted someone, why pick some...some  _ girl _ from the Marches?”

-

Some girl from the Marches, as if there was nothing extraordinary in her. As if her figure couldn’t make a man dizzy, as if her smile didn’t rival the sun upon the snow. He was getting romantic, he knew, which was rare and uncertain. He was no good with words that did not mean exactly what they meant. He had a distaste for poetry. 

“If it is any consolation, I do not think she would be disappointed in you,” he told her. “We cannot—“

“I know,” she cut him off, so gently. “We can’t know the Maker’s will.” She laughed then, a soft snort from her perfect nose. “Would it kill him to drop some clues now and then, Commander?”

He felt himself grinning.

“Perhaps you are a clue yourself. Just being here. Just...walking out of the Fade perfectly in tact.”

“Maybe physically,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “My head’s been spinning for weeks.”

_ Mine too,  _ he thought. And indeed, how physically she seemed sculpted like an Orlesian monument to Andraste herself. Her skin like an sun-touched alabaster, adorned with red freckles from ear-to-ear. He wondered if they crawled down her shoulders, her collar. He stopped his wondering there as best he could. Her lips ever in a defiant, girlish pout. Nervous brown eyes. Long of limb but short of stature.

“I would like to say it will get easier, Herald,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’ve nothing to compare it to.”

She smiled and looked out upon the expanse of the snowy valley.

“You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

“Herald?”

“I have a great-uncle Harold,” she clarified, wrinkling her nose. “He’s a drunk and he smells like fish.”

Cullen laughed, heartier than he meant to. From deep in his barrel chest, bubbling from him like he couldn’t help but be charmed by her wit.

“Oh, well that doesn’t sound very much like you at all,” he said. 

“I like to think I smell a bit better, at least.”

He couldn’t place it. Lilacs, maybe. But with a clean sting. Were there such a thing as sweet, sugary vinegar…

“Yes,” he said. She bit her lip and looked down at the ground between her feet. “What shall I call you, then?”

“Della is fine,” she said, sounding as if she was insisting upon it. 

He had tried, before, to say her given name aloud. But in his voice it sounded too breathy, too much like a prayer or a plea. He could not stop his throat from sounding like he loved her.

“Er—“ he stammered, reaching to scratch the back of his ever-aching neck. “How about Lady Trevelyan? For now?”

“Still better than great-uncle Herald,” she assured him. “Pray this all ends soon, or you might have to meet him.”

-

As she walked away she buried her burning face in her hands. Blinded by her palms, she walked forcefully into Varric, his thick head knocking the wind out of her.

“Easy there, kiddo,” he said, thankfully not sounding upset. He seemed very difficult to anger. 

“Sorry, Varric,” she said, holding her belly, trying to catch her breath.

“Something wrong?” he asked, studying her face. She pressed a hand to her cheek. Utterly aflame. She sighed.

“Are you ever—“ Dammit. “That is— how do you…”

“Spit it out,” he encouraged.

“You just never seem  _ anxious,” _ she said. “How do you do that, when the sky’s torn open and...and people are at war and there are—“ She pawed at her own clavicle as if struggling to breathe. “—men…?”

“Feeling overwhelmed, O Herald of Andraste?”

“Feeling like an ass.”

“Need a drink?”

Maybe that was great-uncle Harolds’s problem. Maybe he was constantly trying to talk to people that made him dizzy.

“Please,” Della insisted, turning on her heel to walk to the tavern. 

After the buzz wore off, late in the night, laying on her thatchy bed, the sky howled. The world was ending. The world was ending and Andraste had roped her into it. Some girl from the Marches. The night wasn’t even dark. Not with the Breach glowing in the heavens. Tomorrow they would be traveling to Val Royeaux, a place she’d only heard about. A land of plenty, and far richer than anything even she had experienced. 

There was a time when she might have thought of gowns to buy, or expensive perfumes to dab on her neck. Rolling over onto her side, she chided herself for feeling disappointed. There were more important things. 

But in the wee morning, when finally she slept, she dreamt she was wearing eggshell-colored silk, dancing in a different nighttime glow. One that did not want to end the world. The moon, above, and it bounced off the smooth metal of the armor of a man that she knew, when she woke, was sleeping just yards from her. On another thatchy bed in another cold cabin, the weight of the world on his shoulders, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Della “I have no idea what I’m doing and at this point I’m too afraid to ask” Trevelyan
> 
> I’m taking a break from writing author career ass shit so that I can fucking enjoy myself


	2. Afraid of what might be

There was nothing to guide her through the dark, sudden future she had found herself in. She could rely only on her senses, and on this near-stranger with whom she was stuck. Dorian, for all his showboating, did at least seem sincere.

And as they struggled through this unfamiliar time, she found herself waiting to see Cullen around each corner. Eyes glowing red and sad, with a tragic story to tell about all he had been through. But the sight of him never came. Though Della ached to see him, perhaps to comfort him, she knew she ought to be glad not to have to see him suffering. She tried to ignore the possibility that, in this future, he was dead. Her anger at Alexius grew in spades at the idea.

Once back in the proper year, once Alexius was defeated and brought in stocks back to Haven, once the now-free mages had piled their belongings onto carts for the journey, she wanted very much to see him. Each of these adventures felt like a conscription into a war she was not ready to fight. There was no being ready for this, no way to prepare to be called upon by the Maker, even if she believed in him for all her life. She was nobody, really. Now she was  _ somebody,  _ and she still had to be a young woman at the same time.

Dorian, bless his heart, hugged her before setting into his new, makeshift quarters.

“I know, people will talk,” he jested, squeezing her slender shoulders. “Now run along. I think the important people are waiting for you in the chantry.”

“Do I have to be one of them?” she asked, slouching away. “Can’t I take a break?”

“Hmmno, I’m afraid you’re quite fucked in that regard,” he assured her. “Do try not to get lost in time on your way.”

“Fucked in no other regard than this,” she said, daring, immediately covering her mouth for a giggle. Dorian was  _ saucy _ . He brought something out in her.

“I’m sure there are countless solutions to that problem hanging around Haven.”

She wrinkled her nose, wondering just how many surprise suitors she truly did have already. No one really stood out, save for the obvious. And he, she had reconciled, was beyond her. He would want someone wiser, someone who would have his adorable little children and move into a modest home. She tried to picture it. Being a wife, maybe that she could do. But being wise, being _ fecund _ ...she found it repulsive, and saw no future where she might change her mind.

And every time she was about to see him, every time she stood outside of those great wooden doors, she told herself she was over it, that it was a passing infatuation. But then he would be there, across the table, standing proud with one hand resting on his sword, and she would feel the too-familiar melting in her knees. She could feel the phantom of his sharp jawline on her fingertips, the scratch of the facial hair he could never quite seem to eradicate. His neck, thick for thin arms to wrap around…

She swallowed. She looked away, at the fine details of the map, as if it were only his looks that had her captivated. And she tried not to listen, as if it were only his voice that made her weak. But he was still  _ there _ , and he was still _ real _ , and therefore he was still kind, and strong, and disciplined beyond her understanding. 

“The mages stand ready to assist us, Herald,” Leliana said. Della had begun to hate the title less. She preferred it be followed by  _ of Andraste, _ so as not to conjure up images of her distant uncle. But she didn’t feel as though she were in a place to complain. “At your order.”

“The news of your decision to take them on as allies has spread, Your Worship,” Josephine said. “I have received many letters already--”

“That can wait, can’t it?” Cullen asked, ever-tired of the politics. “Have people forgotten there’s a massive hole in the sky?”

“Perhaps they are looking for ways to ignore it, Commander,” Leliana said, ever-smiling, even when she was being conniving. 

“We’ll close it, and then I can answer my mail,” Della chimed in, quite used to her voice being drowned out by her advisors’ bickering. But at her whim, they fell silent. She could not decide if she hated the respect or relished it. But the decision was made to march on the Breach at dawn.

On the march into the valley, he caught her gently by the elbow before she could get too far ahead of him. 

“Lady Trevelyan—“ he said, sounding breathless and as if the words still lay uneasy in his throat. She turned, righting her posture as she always did in his presence. For nerves, for the desire to entice. She couldn’t know anymore. She waited for the drift of his eyes down her body, and it did not come. He was either uninterested or gentlemanly. She wished he could be neither, even once.

“Yes?” she asked, and was then bereft of the gloved hand at her elbow.

“Before you journey down there again…”

She tilted her head to the side like a curious little bird, and raised her brow, waiting for more.

“We really do not know what will happen—“

“That seems to be our usual,” she said. He eased into a laugh. 

“Still,” he went on. “Do be cautious.”

She parted her lips as if to tell him,  _ you sweet man, how you worry. Do you worry? Do you dream? _ But all she could manage to do was give him a firm, if friendly, nod.

And then, into the glowing valley. Her left hand stung with strange magic, and yet felt empty of something.

-

To watch her seal the breach was akin to some mystical experience. This tiny woman, a vessel of the Maker, all power and divinity reaching to the heavens and changing the world as if it were effortless. Cullen told himself that this was why he found himself captivated by her. The providence of her. Not the enigmatic smile nor the softness of her skin nor the kindness in her heart.

And later, once everything was quiet save for the lilting music and the cheering of happy voices, he wanted to thank her. But all his gratitude was stopped up in his throat. She was dancing. She was laughing as Dorian spun her beneath his arm. Did Cullen not know that the Tevinter had little interest in women, he might have found himself jealous. He was transfixed, instead.

“She is magnificent, is she not?” Leliana asked, coming up behind him to lean her elbows on the same stone wall.

“Er—“

“I am a  _ spy _ , commander. “I often know things before people know it themselves.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, trying desperately to hold onto any cards he had left in the exchange.

“It would be unwise, Cullen. Pray it is but a passing infatuation.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Very well.” She smiled and wrung her hands. “Do have a drink, Commander. You are allowed to celebrate our small victory.”

“Small victory? We closed the—“

“It is not over,” she warned him. “I feel this is all just beginning. Have that drink.”

But before he could find his way to a cask of ale, the horns rang out. And before he could catch his bearings, they were at war. And before he could swear to her that she would live through this, even if he didn’t know for sure, he was halfway up the snowy mountain, sending a flare into the sky. The mountain crumbled behind him, and he felt his heart grow cold as the wind.

Days passed. Their camp moved wearily through the mountains, lost in the constant winter. He listened constantly for footsteps trudging through the snow. They sent out small parties to search for her, but he could not lead them all. All the while Leliana looked upon him with pity, as if to apologize for stopping him from pursuing her when he had the chance. But it would have been unwise, she was correct. A passing infatuation. He waited for the nervous dreams of her to stop.

One cold evening, they climbed the snowy pass in one last effort to find her. In the moonlight, a withering woman like a shadow, struggling to walk. 

“It’s her,” he said, bellowing, seeped in disbelief. “Thank the Maker…” Under his breath, like a secret.

Before she fell to her knees, she looked at him. Gratitude. Exhaustion. He could not help but fill in her gaze with a budding love.

He carried her like a bride down the hill, watching her foggy breath leave her in short puffs.

“Della…” he mumbled. Over and over, making sure no one could hear. 

She was all blue and cold, shivering even as he laid a blanket over her body as she laid on the makeshift bed. He held a fumbling hand to her forehead, as if he were any sort of healer.

It was his worrying that led to arguing. Fighting among the people he ought to be putting all his faith in. It had been— how long had it been? Two weeks without Lyrium. He had grown agitated, on top of it all.

It was only Mother Giselle’s soft alto that healed them. All of them, kneeling before his Lady, her cheeks flushed with fever and perhaps embarrassment. But he continued singing, imagining it a serenade, wondering if she could pick his untrained voice out in the massive crowd.

And days later, finally, he had something to call her that did not make his ears and toes go numb.  _ Inquisitor _ , so sexless and tepid a word. Thank the Maker. But then, in the lower courtyard, she approached him anew. She was wearing a smart red cape. A leathery bodice with warm red sleeves, her pale décolletage on display, her riding trousers tight on her body. He gulped.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her.

“Commander,” she echoed his tone. “Um…”

She kicked gently at the ground.

“Yes?”

“I just… wanted to make sure you’re alright. After Haven.”

They had lost so much.

“It will be difficult for the Inquisition to recover—“

“No I mean…” She sighed and played nervously with a loose strand of hair. “Are  _ you _ alright?” She looked up at him then, eyes all big and wet and dark. He took a steadying breath.

“I…” He gave his lieutenant a stern look. The young man saluted and made a run for it. “I am just glad you’re safe.”

“Oh—“

“Is that too bold?”

“N-no, not at all…” She bit her lower lip. He shivered. “The whole time I was wandering in the cold I...I wondered if you had made it.”

He exhaled, like a laugh, like absolution, like disbelief. Her life in danger, her limbs going numb, and she had worried for him.

“We’re safe here,” he insisted, hands longing to reach out to her shoulders. To feel her soft bare skin beneath her cape, to bring her close as if she were still cold and nearly dead. To kiss the top of her head and smell the feathery pillow of her hair...to feel her chest pressed to him, her hips tilting into his, dragging his nose up the curve of her neck— Maker’s breath. “I’ll make sure of it. I know you can take care of yourself, but still, I…”

“Thank you, Cullen.”

“Of course.”

She looked side to side, eyes darting. Looking for anyone watching. But everyone was always watching her. It would be a hard thing to avoid, especially given her newly assigned power over everyone, everything. She rocked on her toes. He imagined the soft press of pouting lips to his cheek. 

“I—“ she stammered. “I’m sure you have work to do.”

He watched her walk away, her cape flowing in her wake. His chest felt both heavy and hollow. He would have to resign himself to wanting her, wouldn't he? It had been a long, long time since he’d felt anything close to this. When he was a very young man he experienced the same lusts as everyone else. The same staring, the same wet dreams. But Della, sweet Della…this was something new. Something he now knew was nothing fleeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhhh tell me if I’m doing ok 
> 
> I really like their interactions in canon I just feel there are so many blanks to fill in, so much unexplored sweetness and uhhhh horniness. I just think they’re neat.
> 
> I know this is moving fast but I needed to get them to Skyhold and then the story is gonna level off a bit so we can get to the Good Shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and lmk if you want more! Working on it.


End file.
